An Unknown Welshman

by Jean Stubbs

  With the lady of his tapestry he had conducted an affair of courtly love, keeping her in his mind at tournaments so that he charged as well as those who wore their living lady’s favour. But Hubert and the others chaffed him and his pride was hurt, seeing first one and then another of them play the lover with older women or hunt the countryside for willing girls. And Jasper had warned him to avoid a prostitute for fear of disease, and then left him to his own devices. So between his shyness and his terror of the pox he remained chaste. Only once had he attempted to prove his manhood, when his hunting party met a group of milkmaids.

  ‘There is one for each us!’ said Hubert, flushed by the morning ride, and secured his choice.

  The others bore off their giggling shrieking burdens, and Henry swept the last girl desperately up on to his saddle. But when they reached the privacy of a glade she wept so grievously and wrung her hands and wailed about her honour — which was all she had — that he let her go again. And indeed she was only a child, thanking him and bobbing a curtsey before she took to her heels. He asked a little kindness of her as she wiped her face with her skirt; and she agreed, round-eyed, not to betray the fact that she left him as pure as she had come to him. Then he sat moodily on the ground while his horse cropped peacefully nearby, and cursed and tore up a handful of grass.

  He was quick to see that noble wives, tired of their husbands, were as much drawn by status as by lust. For unless one was a Hubert, with a flattering tongue and glint of eye which promised a host of pleasures, one must be of some consequence. Whereas he, a noble object of the duke’s charity, was virginal and of slight consequence.

  ‘You bring out the mother in them, Harry,’ said Hubert, recounting his latest exploit, ‘and though it is well to have a mother it is best that the mother be not your mistress! If women are not to your liking there are others.’ And he indicated a pretty page lounging against the wall, who blushed and smiled at the attention.

  ‘I am not one that loves boys!’ said Henry, frowning.

  ‘Then must you burn!’

  Burn he did, playing the charmed spectator, envying even Jasper who took women as he took a meal — when needed — and was more attractive to them because they knew they were not paramount. So Henry made a show of hunting, at which he excelled, and while his friends pursued ladies he drove down the gentle hart and trembling hare.

  Rigaud’s dark shed had seemed so much a part of him, and the falcons so much his passion, that Henry was surprised to see a girl of fifteen unpacking her basket there at noon. And she, more startled than himself, made her curtsey and did not know where to look.

  ‘Go you, go you to your mother!’ Rigaud ordered gruffly, and when she had slipped past Henry, scarlet-cheeked, he said reluctantly, ‘That is my youngest daughter, my lord, who fetches me food when I am not at home.’

  Then he laid aside the black bread and milky cheese and spoke of other matters, and though Henry was curious he asked no questions, sensing that Rigaud’s private life was sacred to him. And he watched the man courting his fierce birds and wondered whether he had courted his wife so subtly, and thinking of courtship remembered the shy girl agape at his fine clothes. He made enquiries as delicate as they were casual, and discovered Rigaud’s other life, sad and complex and dark as the falconer himself.

  ‘For he married a shrew, my lord,’ said a groom, holding Henry’s horse, ‘though some say she was fair-tongued until she found he loved the falcons more. And the worse husband he made the better falconer he became. Yet was she fruitful for he has a hutful of children, though all are grown and most are gone. And they say he cared not for any but this last, and her he loves above all, watching her as he watches his hawks, and will not let any man come near her. So unless the maid takes a fancy to some fellow she will die unwed.’

  Had he been Hubert he would have had to hunt the girl forthwith, but being Henry he dreamed of her instead, and came upon Rigaud frequently at noon without finding her there, and suspected that the falconer had altered the time of her coming — in which he was correct. And Rigaud smiled grimly to himself as the young earl looked covertly about the shed, and sighed and talked of anything but what truly brought him there. Once he called at Rigaud’s hut when he was hunting, and asked for water, but a sour-faced woman served him and he could see nothing of the girl. As spring became summer and Brittany was abuzz with rumours of an English expedition, Henry began his first amorous campaign and planned it with as much care and cunning as King Edward devoted to his march on France.

  His letters from Lady Margaret lay often half-read, and Jasper’s groans at inactivity received as little attention as good manners demanded. Instead he made a study of peasant life from dawn to dark, amassing information from every source, from phrases and scraps of talk so scanty and diverse that no one except himself would have had use for them. And having drawn a picture of her day he drew conclusions, and was out on his horse alone just before first light on an August morning.

  ‘Why, mushrooms are a poor man’s meat, my lord,’ a servitor had said, ‘and they spring up in the night like witchcraft, and belong to the one that picks them earliest.’

  So he rode earlier than any, and prayed that she would be early too. And there she was with her basket, coming away from the field and singing to herself. He reined in beside her and the song stopped as she recognized him. She bent her head, gripped her rough basket, and said nothing to his courtesies, though he spoke first in French and then in the Breton dialect. And the dialect, springing from the same roots as the Welsh tongue, added a dimension of fantasy and made him feel at home again.

  Henry had spent too much of his life among horses, hounds and hawks to spoil this quarry with a hasty victory. For the moment, as the sun rose, he contented himself by removing her fears. As though he had been on his way elsewhere he asked about the mushrooms, said he knew her father well, and then flicked the reins on his horse’s neck and bade her a good morning. Looking back, twenty yards further on, he saw her staring after him, and smiled to himself.

  He was as secret and as patient in this little matter as he had told Jasper he would be in a great estate, and sweeter even than the long conquest was the feeling that this was himself in his own world. Rigaud’s protection had made her guileless, and though she knew that all their meetings could not be happy chances, yet she lacked the wit to see how they were planned. And he was always so mindful of her that she could not think he wished her harm. So he progressed, from the first moment that she told him her name was Berthe until that late summer evening when he slipped gold in the gate-keeper’s hand and met her in the woods by appointment.

  She was late, since she slept with her mother and had to wait until the woman snored oblivion. And Rigaud, as Henry well knew, was keeping a long watch with a new hawk. So they were alone, and as safe in their grass and flower bed as those who lay within the château walls. Rigaud had taught him courtship, and the girl’s innocence disguised the fact that he was as much a virgin as herself. Nor did she protest that he would think lightly of her, but went with him trustfully and was glad to please him, though once she cried out for her mother and wept a little.

  They lay there until dawn and he looked down at her sleeping lids and thought of the tamed falcon, and was taken by a strange tenderness. His conscience gave him a sharp prick about Rigaud, but he stilled it by remembering that he was a lord and as such pursued his own code of honour. And though he never boasted of his victory there was an air about him, so that Hubert ceased to play the cockerel and shrugged his shoulders and said he was a secretive fellow.

  ‘When you have done smiling to yourself,’ said Jasper tartly, ‘I’ll speak of politics, but let me not disturb your inward thoughts for they must be weighty!’

  ‘I crave your pardon, uncle.’

  ‘The king of England has not forgotten Harry Tudor,’ Jasper continued, mollified, ‘and if you read your lady mother’s letters you will find that we now perch upon the limb of a tree.’

  A
nd he picked up a twig and drew in the dust a triangle and a half-circle.

  ‘For three years has King Edward milked England of her wealth and to some purpose,’ and he prodded the triangle. ‘He had no civil war to wage, with Lancaster gone, and yet his sword-arm itched for he is a great warrior. He should rust upon the wall as I do,’ Jasper added crossly, ‘then would he know what rusting was! But with this wealth he forged an army greater than any English monarch led, and sailed it out to France,’ and he drew a line between the triangle and the half-circle, ‘but three months ago, if you remember. For his brother-in-law Burgundy,’ drawing a cross in France’s centre, ‘had promised him that if he fought from Calais Burgundy would prod Louis in the back. But when he got there he found the bold Charles skirmishing in another part and unmindful of his promise...’

  ‘All this I know, uncle,’ said Henry gently. ‘And they have signed a treaty, for neither of them wanted war. And King Edward had the best of the bargain — having the best army — and so sailed home with 75,000 crowns in his pocket and 50,000 crowns a year to come, and his eldest daughter betrothed to the Dauphin Charles. And of them all she has the worst of the bargain for the Dauphin is an ugly creature and she a pretty child, so I have heard.’

  ‘They are not married yet,’ said Jasper sagely, ‘and Louis has an old score to pay, for the king jilted his sister-in-law, Bona. So may the Dauphin yet insult the Princess Elizabeth of York and wipe her father’s smile off his face. But it is not this of which I speak. Now here are we,’ and he portioned off a little circle on the shore of France. ‘And here is Edward,’ and he shaded in England, ‘and here is Louis, that has signed the Treaty of Pecquigni with him and a nine years’ peace,’ and he shaded a great part of France, ‘and here is Charles of Burgundy that has signed the same treaty. So where is the Duke of Brittany now but surrounded by his enemies?’

  Dragged from his summer nights in one brief moment, Henry stared at the little patch of dust, his smile vanishing.

  ‘The duke has suffered a decline in power since he was forced to take an oath of allegiance to Louis last year,’ Jasper continued, ‘and Brittany was not then as independent as she has been. Now look at her, and look at us if Edward should decide you must go home!’

  ‘The duke is proud and will not have us taken on a whim.’

  ‘The duke is powerless and has no other choice. So pray that King Edward does not want a Tudor son-in-law — and watch yourself in the woods, Harry, at night. For there be eyes and ears in Brittany that could work for England.’

  Henry flushed suddenly and Jasper chuckled.

  ‘Nay lad, I am not your priest but your counsellor. Take what you want and pay for it.’

  ‘Pay?’ said Henry, jolted into speech.

  Jasper looked at him lazily but with some compassion.

  ‘I do not mean with gold,’ he said, ‘but your wench will cost you a falconer’s friendship for a beginning, and maybe more before the end.’

  ‘There are too many tongues in Brittany!’ Henry cried, outraged.

  ‘Now do you see what kings’ crowns hang upon,’ Jasper replied.

  As the autumn drew in and nights were chilly Henry and his mistress sought the warmth of hay, and brought their love affair nearer to home. His nobility protected him to a great extent because no peasant would carry a tale about a lord unless it meant money, and no one in the château was interested enough to pay for such information. And the falconer’s wife, hearing whispers and once finding the girl gone from her bed, was too fearful of Henry and her husband’s wrath to say anything. So dank November came, and crisp December, before the falconer heard, and Henry found him there instead of Berthe.

  ‘We’ll have no play with words, my lord,’ said Rigaud quietly. ‘She is at home and shall not come again. I had not looked for this, my lord. I thought your courtesy too great to spoil her.’

  He must have rehearsed his little speech over and over, for it came mechanically though his eyes were fierce. His arms hung at his sides, his shoulders drooped, about his person hung an air of lifelessness.

  ‘She is with child!’ he shouted suddenly.

  The words came from Henry almost without his volition. A child in whose peasant veins ran a thin stream of royalty, and this rough falconer accused him of despoiling.

  ‘Then does she bear a noble burden,’ said Henry quietly.

  The last atom of understanding had been destroyed, and Rigaud’s hand went to the knife in his belt.

  ‘Now hold your hand, good Rigaud,’ Henry commanded. ‘My death accomplishes nothing,’ but his own hand moved to the hilt of his sword. ‘Your daughter shall be well-provided. So shall the child. And the dowry I give her shall fetch her a husband. It is small hardship, then, for any of us.’

  ‘Oh, my lord,’ Rigaud whispered, ‘you speak lightly of hardship that bears none. The falcon in my shed will fetch more gold than you can give my daughter. Where is her honour now, that was as pure as any? I thought to give her to a goodly man. Oh you did tear my heart when you deflowered her, as no man will again. If there is justice in heaven I pray God to witness this. I pray you lose a child as I have done, then will you know grief. And I curse you, waking and sleeping, sitting or lying or standing, in youth and middle years and in old age, in company and solitude, to your life’s end.’

  Pale and proud they stared at one another, and then Henry turned on his heel and left him.

  He bore the weight of Rigaud’s curse as the news passed round the court: from the duke’s smile as he gave Henry money for the girl and the bastard she carried, to Hubert’s insensitive banter. Only Jasper said nothing, but must have told the Lady Margaret of it, for she wrote seeming to speak of King Edward and his brother Clarence.

  The king has civil war within his family. First between the queen’s relatives that are greedy for power, and his own brother Richard of Gloucester and his mother the Duchess Cecily that call them ‘mongrel connections’. And then between Clarence and them all. For though Clarence is harmless unless he has a master such as Warwick was, he is an ambitious fool and cannot keep his fingers from the crown, and quarrels with every man.

  The Duke of Gloucester keeps in the north, where they say he rules the border wisely and well, and the king has bestowed many honours upon him. But Clarence who does nothing says the king is partial, and ever seeks new friends that might help him. He even whispers plots with Louis of France, which is a perilous undertaking, for Louis only looks for mischief and would betray him if he took the whim. So though the house of York rules it is rifted with betrayal, and the house that is divided against itself cannot stand.

  Yet must we ever look into our own hearts and learn from them, lest they betray our souls. The betrayer and the betrayed suffer separately and their suffering is different. Yet each can learn from the act of betrayal. Above all else must they put it behind them, when they have suffered, and go on apart. But Clarence is a foolish prince and returns again and again to the sins he has committed, and shall do until the king’s patience fails, and so he learns nothing that should learn much.

  On a fine morning in the early summer of 1476, as the court assembled for a hunting party, Henry heard news from his groom.

  ‘They say that Rigaud’s daughter is dead, my lord,’ said the man, fumbling with Henry’s stirrup and keeping his face averted.

  ‘And what of the child?’

  ‘Still-born, my lord.’

  ‘The stirrup is well enough,’ said Henry, after a chilled pause. ‘How does poor Rigaud?’

  ‘Why, he is in a maze of sorry thoughts, and sits like one that will not rise again. And though some go to comfort him he looks and says nothing.’

  ‘I’ll not hunt today,’ said Henry slowly, beginning to dismount.

  But Jasper rode beside him and halted him with a warning hand.

  ‘You shall hunt, Harry, though you die for it,’ he said in a low voice, and drew him away from the groom’s busy ears. ‘The wench is dead. Your mourning cannot give her
life again and will cause talk at court. I told you, lad, to take and pay for it.’

  ‘She paid for all!’

  ‘She paid a princely price, now do you likewise. Your payment, Harry, shall be a smiling countenance. No nobleman sheds tears over a peasant mistress, but keeps them in his heart or for his private chamber. And if you love again, Harry, see that it be your wife — or else a woman that you cannot break. Life teaches cruelly, that is your lesson, lad. Now mount and ride, and see that you are foremost in the hunt. And, Harry, do not fall behind the rest — not only for your honour but for your safety. King Edward grows impatient, and he has friends in Brittany.’

  So the little cavalcade rode out of the château: the gentlemen as fine as the ladies, and all merry at the prospect of the chase. And Henry was as gay as the rest and held his head high, but when he slipped the hood from the falcon’s head his hand shook momentarily.

  The bird looked about her with inhuman eyes, ruffling her striped feathers, and then soared high and true into the morning air. He watched her flight, and knowledge lay in him like a stone.

  The embassy that arrived in Brittany, under the auspices of Bishop Stillington, brought protestations of friendship and kindness, and a pressing desire for Henry Tudor’s welfare. Duke François was not deceived, but as he exchanged compliments he reflected on his position, of which he was presently reminded in the most delicate way.

  ‘King Edward holds your love so dear, your grace,’ said Bishop Stillington, ‘that he would have proof of it. The king of France and the Duke of Burgundy have signed a treaty with him, and he has ever been a friend to Brittany. Wherefore he wonders why you will not let him have his subject, Henry Tudor. No harm shall come to him but all honour.’

  ‘Inform the Earl of Richmond that I would speak to him,’ said the duke, wavering.